Inventio
by ImOrca
Summary: Carol feels that her responsibilities require her to make a run. The process of it all will demonstrate how much ingenuity it takes to be survivors for the long term. Set after 3.12 "Clear," and diverges from cannon story/timeline. Rated for language, themes. Caryl speculation. Chapter interactions: 4. Merle & Michonne, 5. Rick & Carl, 6. Daryl. WIP.
1. 1: A Tone

**Notes: A central problem, I've always thought, with apocalyptic tales has to do with the loss of accumulated human memory. Especially for a setting like TWD, coming at a point in human history where so much of what we know is not stored internally by people. It's "exported" and stored externally, in books, computers, etc. Further, in a world with no electricity, and without the networked communication we've come to rely on, much of that exported information is not accessible at all. If it's on a computer, it's really hard to get to, and if it's stored on "the cloud," you'll never see it again. There **_**do**_** exist ways to deal with many of the issues of necessity like food, medicine - and even luxuries like electrical power – that are either really old or really new technologies that could potentially be recreated by survivors. Yet, without access to information about them, they might as well **_**not**_** exist. I understand that the structure of the story of TWD is about immediacy and horror. The result is a constant focus on emergency drama. And it's exciting – I love it, too. But I do think focusing on the need to kill or be killed in order to survive underestimates the thing that allowed a species with bad eyesight, poor hearing, no natural weapons, and offspring that take over a decade to mature to **_**actually survive**_**: big brains, and the accumulation of the inventiveness of those brains.**

**Disclaimer: Copyright for **_**The Walking Dead**_** belongs to AMC, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.**

**Title: "Inventio"  
Chapter: "1: A Tone"**

"If I'm going to do this right, there are things I need to know, Rick, and nobody here can tell me. It'll take some time to find out if the information is even there. I'll probably need to spend at least a couple days and nights on the search. But if I find what I'm looking for...just think about what that could mean? Some independence if we get shut out from access to cities for supplies? We all know that eventually the drugs and the ammunition will be gone. This is – well, this is the run of all runs!"

Rick rubbed his jaw, playing with the graying whiskers a bit as he thought it over. He didn't like the idea at all that the proposal would take Carol away from the safety of the prison for such a long time. And he certainly didn't think he could spare the amount of people he wanted to send with her. She had come to represent the stability of place for him. Wherever Carol was, that was the place they came back to – the axis of the compass that mapped their world.

She waited in front of him with her lips held in a tight line, quiet and still. She had braced her feet in a soldier stance and had her arms crossed over her chest, one hand steadying the strap of her rifle. She balanced herself against the weight of the weapon with nonchalance, as easily as she adjusted to holding Judith. When had this happened to her? To all of them? He felt bad about it, like it was something she shouldn't have been asked to do. But he was also relieved that she no longer felt the need to beg him to do something, when they all knew there was nothing to be done.

The intensity of her gaze was making him uncomfortable, all the more because it was unexpected. She usually wasn't this direct. Carol preferred to make a suggestion and wait for her target to decide that he (and it was always he) had come up with the idea himself. Then she'd smile that small smile to herself, agree that the idea was very wise, and ask how she could help. Once Rick had figured out how she accomplished it, he had been amused at how masterfully she'd handled a disgruntled Merle, a pouting Daryl, a huffy Hershel, and a panicky Glenn. Then he'd been resentful when he realized that if she'd been manipulating them then he surely hadn't escaped her cleverness.

Rick moved to look over the map again. Carol had marked the location of the college and the most advantageous route. A series of notes were jotted in Hershel's hand at several spots along the way, indicating possible locations for supply scouting, safe harbors, and work arounds for herds or blocked roads. There were also some calculations approximating needs for fuel and food scratched in the margins.

"The risk is worth it, Rick. We can do this._ I_ can do this. I know what I'm looking for. If I don't find it, we come back with some supplies. If I do, we gain _so much more_." Her voice held that rarest of tones, and he knew he couldn't refuse her when it resonated from his eardrums to settle in his chest: _hope_.

He turned to her, his decision made, but not ready to tell her. "How many would you want to take, who, and what vehicle would you want?"

Carol's eyebrows contracted and she stepped forward. "We would want to be agile. Stealth if we met any kind of trouble, the living or the dead. I don't want to fight anything at all if we don't have to. I would want Michonne for sure. And I was thinking...Carl."

Rick's eyes grew stormy, and his mouth moved to speak.

Carol held up a hand as if to ward him off. "Carl doesn't waste ammo, and you know he's our best lookout. His weapon is the most reliable with a silencer. It never jams. He proved his good judgment on his run with you, Rick. And in terms of the number of jobs he can do here? The better use of resources is to send him with me."

She was smart. And she'd been thinking this over, and probably practicing with Hershel. Rick could feel the influence of the old coot in that speech.

"How long would ya be gone?" He knew he was growling. He didn't exactly care.

"I'd expect at least one overnight, maybe two? There are two libraries we need to get into, could be three. They have the main one, then over in their ROTC building they have a military library. I'm hoping it might have resources on helping us figure a way to make our own shot. And there's one in the nursing school. We won't know the exact situation until we get there. If we are lucky, students would have lit out home when the outbreak started. But, it might have been one of the emergency centers. Library probably wouldn't have been the HQ of that, though." She paused, and her face got hard. "And...there could be people housing up there. We won't take any chances." She tilted her head just barely to the side. "I thought we might appraise it ourselves – you know, as a fall-back position...if we need it, from here? If you think it would be a good idea..." She left the idea hanging between them.

"How do you know all that?"

"Maggie had friends. Dated a couple guys that went there. Drew me good maps."

"And have you talked with Michonne?"

She made a non-committal gesture with the shoulder not burdened by her rifle. "Yes. She wasn't excited, but said if she had to go she would."

"Carl?"

Carol shook her head. "No. I haven't spoken to him yet. I wanted to ask how you wanted to handle it." She didn't quite meet his eye, looking at his left shoulder before slowly sweeping up to tentatively check him through her lashes.

"Uh huh. And?"

"And what?"

"And what would you advise? You've been mighty chummy with my son as of late. I expect you know more about how he'll feel than I do."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "His childhood is gone, Rick. He's moody. His life isn't easy, and there isn't much fun to be had. But we both know that he's smart, and tough, and a really great kid. I simply meant that I was waiting to see if you wanted to tell him or if you wanted me to do it."

"Oh." He felt like an ass. Of course that's what she'd meant. He turned, placing his hands on the table to balance leaning over the map again, distracting himself from his embarrassment.

He cleared his throat. "Vehicle?"

When Carol didn't answer right away, he looked over his shoulder at her. She looked uneasy, and was shifting the rifle to her other side. She was going to propose something he wasn't going to like.

"I think we should take one on the road. I think the three of us should start on foot with our fuel, out the western fence. Route 24 is about a two mile hike northwest. Then we'll pick up a vehicle there."

"What!?" Rick was up and standing over her before he knew it. He had to hold himself back.

"Rick, wait. Just hear me out - "

"Leave yourselves exposed for miles? Carrying fuel? Holy hell, Carol! Do you even know how to hotwire a vehicle, you crazy –"

"Oh, no, you will not call me anything like that." Her voice was deadly quiet and she had stepped up into his space. "I am not crazy. Do you really want to compare sanity with me," her pause was icy and menacing, "Rick?" Her eyes glinted at him.

"Explain," he ground out, easing himself back slightly from her stare.

"Woodbury knows our cars. They saw Glen drive in after the attack. Andrea drove back, so they know the ones we found here. If they had any scouts around they would have seen the little green beastie. We can't afford alerting them by taking one of those out of here. We'll take precautions when we leave. We've got the riot gear we haven't really used from the armory. We'll suit up. We'll strap on the fuel to leave our hands free. We can make this work."

"And starting it?"

She stumbled over words as she rushed, "G-Glenn! He's walked me through it on the vehicles here. He's sure I'll be able to start one we find."

He drew in a breath and blew it out in a frustrated humph. "Sounds like everyone's been in on this little plot of yours except me."

Carol didn't say anything. She kept her face neutral. Oh, so there was a bit of conspiracy afoot?

"What does Daryl say?"

She blinked and swallowed, crossing her arms again, drawing herself up to her full height and clearing her face of worry before she answered. "He'll understand." She sounded confident.

"_Really_." Rick let all his skepticism about the details out in those two syllables.

She shrugged, and one side of her mouth tugged downward.

"You think I'm going to be able to keep him inside this place when he finds out you're gone?"

"_I think_ he'll figure out that if this place is going to stand up to an assault that's where he'll need to stay."

Rick shook his head. The plan was pretty sound, and there was a chance that she'd go off anyway with a more dangerous one if he didn't handle this right.

"Look, Rick. You've asked me to take stock of how we can sustain ourselves. I'm good at it." Her brow furrowed and she caught her lip between her teeth. The next sentence came out aimed over her shoulder at the door to the cafeteria. "Ed only had to beat me once before I learned to figure supplies and ration." She appeared to work out a kink in her neck and rubbed her chin on her shirt as she turned back, half-laughing. "Survivalist wives."

He didn't just feel like an ass; he _was _an ass. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder where she got the skills. He'd basically asked her think of that bastard every day. He had no idea how he was going to make that up to her. Or even apologize. Shit. But she was still talking. "This would give us the freedom to make some of what we need and not be at the mercy of what's left over out there or a blockade we can't run."

She looked to the floor then up to the windows, as if for inspiration. Her voice was very quiet when she spoke again. "I'm not just thinking of now. It's that little girl. I'm thinking to her life, and a time when this isn't new anymore, a time when you – when I might not be around." She turned her eyes back to him, and there was that bewitching smile of hers. Her voice was still quiet, and that tone was back rattling around his chest again, suspiciously near his heart. "This is a good thing, Rick. This is about a future." If such a thing was possible, it looked to him as if her eyes got brighter blue. "This is," she stepped to him and placed a hand on his bicep, squeezing, "a chance to run toward something instead of away from it! To plan on something other than a war. Maybe it won't be here, but what we find could start to sustain a life for her."

Despite himself, he felt his lips curl at one side. He broke eye contact and nodded at the floor to minimize the temptation and effect. "Fine. When did you think you were gonna leave?"

Even as he'd started to speak Carol had slipped her arms around him and embraced him. She was shaking her head, rubbing her nose into the flannel of his shirt and making some kind of happy noise. Her scruffy, pixy hair tickled at his neck and since she couldn't see him he let himself smile completely. He snaked his arms around her for a quick hug, and kissed the top of her head. Then he moved his hands up to take her by the shoulders and ease her back, crouching just a little to meet her at eye level. "When?"

"Oh! Um, sooner the better. I've got a couple things I'd like to finalize. But tomorrow, early, just before first light."

"Okay." He released her and stood up straight, hands resting on his belt.

"Carl? Did you want to – "

"Yeah, I'll talk with him."

Carol nodded, then surprised him by pushing up on her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek before turning to take up her map and move out of the cafeteria. He thought he caught her skipping for a step as she reached the door. He was an ass, and she had survived personal hell and a walker invasion to be able to hope for the slimmest possibility of a future she might not live to see.

Rick ran a hand through his hair. He hoped she was right. God, he hoped she was right – about Carl, about what she'd find, about everything. Scrubbing the curls at the back of his head he remembered Daryl. He blew out a frustrated breath. That was not going to go well. She hadn't told him, and neither had any of her co-conspirators it seemed. Rick desperately hoped that was one of the things she needed to finalize.

As far as he could tell, nothing had changed between the two since the Dixons had returned. The hints of softness that showed up around Daryl's edges still seemed to be there with Carol, and she was obviously relieved he was back. But the gossip chain hadn't told him of any public status change, and indicated that there had not been much alone time with Merle in the picture. Rick couldn't be sure, of course. He'd been uncertain of so much for those first days after Lori, then away in Cynthia. All the work since he returned didn't leave much time for observation either.

He moved toward the cells to find Carl.


	2. 2: Drop the Camouflage

**Disclaimer: Copyright for **_**The Walking Dead**_** belongs to AMC, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.**

**Title: "Inventio"  
Chapter: "2: Drop the Camouflage"**

Michonne shaded her eyes as she stepped out into the yard. The sun shone hard and hot on the pavement and shimmered back up in waves that distorted her vision. It had to be today, didn't it? The very worst afternoon they'd faced this whole wretched summer and she was going to have to muck up in the dead. She could smell the reek off the walkers at the fence. It rolled off them in waves. The sun accelerated decay. She wished that it would just fry the bastards where they stood. Too bad there wasn't spontaneous human combustion. The thought of the corpses in the field lighting up one by one simply from the heat amused her. She shook her head. Yeah. Too damn bad.

Might as well get to it. Sooner begun, sooner done. She heard the door scrape open and Glenn stepped out in the sun to join her. She swore she could hear the sweat pop out from the pores on his forehead. He squinted over at her and pulled the most miserable face she had seen in months. He groaned, and she swore he would make a perfect walker. Despite herself she scoffed at him, and he smiled in return, looking a bit sheepish.

"What were you thinking? You want to draw a few into the yard here?"

She shook her head. "Just have to clean up later. Put a couple down right where we'll need 'em. Less fuss."

Glenn nodded in assent. "Out the west fence then? Do I need to get the wire cutters?"

Michonne held up the tool she'd taken from the truck. "Got wire, too."

Pulling his sleeve across his forehead, Glenn moved out toward the fence mumbling something.

"Hmm?"

"Just...I miss my baseball cap. Kept the sun off."

Boys and their hats, Michonne thought. Kendall had a whole collection of baseball caps, and never wore a single one. The last one she'd given him was...Charlotte Hornets, for his birthday. It was an exclusive from their 2001 playoff series. She'd had to go online to track it down for him, from somewhere in Ohio. It was probably still sitting in its box in that apartment, and would be for the next thousand years. Or maybe they had napalmed Memphis like they had other cities to clear the dead. Then it'd probably turned to ash like Kendall...like so much else she'd cared about. She looked at the back of Glenn's neck as he walked ahead of her. Now what that boy really needed was a sombrero or a hat like Carl's. His neck was already starting to turn pink under the scorching rays. It was a catch twenty-two about the haircut he'd just had. Less hair was cooler, but it exposed his neck.

There wasn't much call for anyone to be at the west fenceline most of the time. The yard was narrow there, just a path of concrete really, running between the building and the fence. The only exits on that side of the prison were a couple emergency doors and the most minimal of fire escape scaffolding. Certainly nothing they would use on any regular basis. As a result, other than being sure the fence wasn't compromised, nobody had paid much attention to it. Glenn slowed as he approached, and gave it a hard stare. If at all possible, he wanted to use an already existing breach rather than creating a new one. The fewer weak spots they had to police the better.

Doing his best to tune out the hissing, spitting and groaning, he walked the fence taking in the details of its structure. About 60 yards from the where it made the t-intersection with the inner gate and continued ahead to the field fence, there was a joint at one of the reinforcing rails. The builders had needed to begin with a new panel of mesh, and had made the transition at the post. To undo the existing joint, however, they'd either have to cut the fencing or undo the clamps that held the mesh to the post. Cutting would make it weak, and provide no greater convenience. Unclamping would take forever, both in and out.

About half way down the western side there were a set of double postings that was out of place. The section of fence in question had double posts at its north and south edges, while every other section had only one post. As Glenn investigated further, he realized that it had been set up to act as an additional gate if needed. The Second posts were not embedded into cemented footings in the ground like the others. However, instead of installing a set of latches and hardware for locking and sliding like the other gates, the wire mesh had simply been run across and attached as it was to the regular posts.

"Huh. Well, somebody thought ahead to make their lives easier."

Michonne had retreated into the shade of the building, and leaned against the brick watching Glenn as he inspected the fencing. "Got an idea?" she asked.

"Yeah, actually. One that might be good for a lot more than just your run."

Michonne pushed off from the wall to approach. "So?"

"Well, see, if we cut all the way up both sides and reinforce them, we've got a new gate. And it would be big enough to get a vehicle in over here." Glenn looked up the wall and back. "You know, park them next to the emergency exits. I don't know. It might be worth thinking on." Glenn swiped at his brow and his neck. His face hardened a bit. "I wonder if Merle could tell us how well he thinks they'd watch this side. Since we're never over here, maybe it's not scouted. Maybe it'd – "

"Be a secret stash," Michonne finished for him. Her eyes had a predatory glint.

Glenn grinned back at her. "We'll need a ladder, and I'll need to think about how to do hinges. Might be able to scrounge something from the broken fences out front. Think the two of us could make a quick out and back to the front gate in the Tuscon to check. Bring hardware back if we need it?"

Michonne allowed herself a rare smile. "Probably. Would want to wait on this, here, until night, though."

"Yeah." Glenn shaded his eyes and looked up at the sky. "Thank God. At least I don't have to do it all in this blistering sun!"

Michonne scoffed at him again, and when Glenn laughed she joined him in low tones.

"Let's drop the camouflage we need though, yeah?" she said.

"Yeah."

Glen pulled out his knife from the make-shift sheath on his belt and moved over to line himself up with a particularly tattered walker at the fence. It was missing its right ear, and its right arm hung by only some ropey filaments below the elbow. While it tried to reach through to him with its left hand, the spikey, blackened bone fragments of its right arm rasped against the wire grid. As he reared back to build momentum for the strike, Glenn was stopped by a firm grip on his wrist.

"Don't want to block the gate."

Glenn looked over his shoulder. If he thought she was capable of it, he would have sworn Michonne was teasing him.

"Oh, yeah. Right." He cleared his throat and shifted his stance when she let go of his wrist. Pulling his knife against the fence, he drew a couple walkers toward him and back the way they'd come. When he heard the hiss of Michonne's blade leave its scabbard he stopped and readied himself again.

The two made quick work of downing a half-dozen of the dead before stepping back and wiping off their weapons. As he re-sheathed his knife Glenn frowned. "One of us is going to have to talk with Merle to get an opinion."

Michonne had slung the scabbarded katana over her shoulder again, and was standing back up from where she'd bent to retrieve the wire-cutters and spool of wire near the wall. She made eye contact with him, then screwed up her mouth as if tasting something bad, and looked to the side.

Glenn had to agree. "Yeah. Not the two best choices for that."

Michonne raised an eyebrow and turned, beginning her walk back toward their preferred entrance. "My talking hasn't ended in gunfire. Yet."

"Uh, yeah. Ha, true." Glenn couldn't quite tell if she was joking, or angry, or something else.

"Said he wants to make peace. I'll let him try."

Glenn had caught up to her. In truth their little dust-up had built her respect for Glenn. He'd stood up to the bastard and in the same moment had seemed to put down some of the demons that had haunted him since their return from Woodbury. Michonne knew a thing or two about anger and bad decisions. She was glad that Glenn was a relatively fast learner. Merle was not.


	3. 3: Well-Timed Word

**Notes: I wrote three chapters up front because I knew I wouldn't be able to update frequently or consistently. But I did want to establish the tone and nature of the story. I can only hope that you're starting to see what I'm after in terms of aligning numerous kinds of layers. It might be too ambitious. But I'll try.**

**Disclaimer: Copyright for **_**The Walking Dead**_** belongs to AMC, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.**

**Title: "Inventio"  
Chapter: "3: Well-Timed Word"**

Merle pulled open the door of the "riot room" and looked for a way to keep it propped. Like all the other doors in the prison it was heavy duty, and designed to require purposeful force to open, and to close quickly when left to its own devices. Reaching to a nearby shelving unit, he grabbed what looked like a cracked helmet and wedged it under the edge of the door, giving it a good slam with his boot to keep it lodged in place. That settled he cracked his neck as he moved into the room, his gaze sweeping the equipment that was piled around the space.

Carol had asked him to help her inventory the items of body armor and other protective gear that were stored. The group had made virtually no use of it, save for the vest Carl wore and the shield T-Dog had used for the first few days as they'd originally taken the prison from its undead tenants. However, they had kept what equipment seemed salvageable from the turned guards and added it and the discarded items they found to what was left of the gear in the storage room when they finally discovered it. Now it seemed that there was use for some of the Kevlar pieces and the shields, at least. They were hoping to reinforce the vehicles, and some internal positions inside the prison. Carol had said that his military experience would be the closest thing they had to an expert to tell them what was worth keeping and what would be more hazard than help.

Carol stepped in behind him and brushed her hands off on her pants. "So, how would you like to tackle this? Do you want to take a general look through first? Would you rather I sort things into piles for you? I'm at your service."

Merle turned his gaze on her. At his service? Seemed like she was at everyone's service, always doing everything anyone asked her to without a word of complaint. He'd never heard her protest a plan or put in a pissed off jibe the way the rest of them did, even the gun-toting kid and that jailbait blonde. No, she operated behind the scenes, and yet, Merle felt her hand wherever he turned. She'd been stirring soup when he'd tried to make peace with Michonne. Never said a word. He hardly realized she was there until after he left the room. He'd seen her lay a light hand on the shoulder of the old veterinarian and whisper a well-timed word, seen her sit next to the Asian kid at dinner and calm him just by being near. He'd watched her with the baby, and seen how she made sure the tiny bundle was there to soothe Father and son both. And he'd seen his own brother make eye contact with her, whole conversations happening across the room without a word spoken. Then he'd found out about her plan to get Andrea to murder the Governor in his sleep. That had warmed Merle's black heart. He decided right then that he liked her.

He knew she'd been at the Atlanta camp, but he'd be damned if he remembered her at all. He vaguely remembered the man that must have been her husband. "Let me do a little look-see first, then I'll know more." Merle moved to the piles and began to rifle through, getting a sense of what kind of equipment was hidden within. "So, you were at Atlanta? Can't say as I remember you. Were your husband the one who smoked? Might'a shared a light with him."

Carol's low laugh sounded a bit hollow. "Yes, he smoked. Among other things. His name was Ed. Peletier."

"Was he always fixin' on an old camper?"

"Ah, no. That would have been Dale...or Jim. Dale – ," she took a breath, "was older. Had a white beard and wore this silly sun hat all the time." Merle could hear the smile in her voice. "I'd imagine the two of you wouldn't have had much in common."

"Why's that?"

"Oh. Um, well...Dale was kind of a philosopher. He didn't want us to lose who we were – our civilized world. Back there, I think he would have disapproved of...hmmm...most of what you were all about." She laughed a little again.

Merle looked up from his pile, body armor mostly. "Are you sayin' I ain't civilized?" He thought he'd see if she'd tease with him a little.

She gave him an appraising look. "You are certainly better now that you aren't high."

"Huh! I'll give you that, peaches."

"Peaches? Merle, are you flirting with me?"

Merle looked back over his shoulder at her again. "Maybe."

She laughed. "Oh, Merle. Do you know how long it's been since anyone did that? Gosh, I was probably Beth's age." With that she moved and started sorting the items into piles, using the shelves for smaller things like gloves and helmets. She began to work at aligning the shields together so they'd take up less room and be easier to compare.

Merle squinted at her through the transparent top of a shield. "What?" he scoffed. "Looks like you're just a young, sweet thing, too, from where I'm standin'."

Carol laughed heartily at that and threw a glove playfully at him. It bounced harmlessly off the shield, and he smiled back at her. "Daryl was right. You do think you have a way with the ladies, don't you?" she asked, still chuckling.

"It's the end of the world, peaches. My charm's looking better and better." A laugh caught in his throat. "Hmph. Not so much competition now." He moved to the last pile as Carol continued to sort. He hadn't even asked her to. It seemed like she just couldn't keep still. "So, Dale fixed on the RV. Then you said Jim?"

"Oh, yeah, Jim. He was tall and really lean, with a close beard." She paused. She was quieter when she spoke again, "He died before we got to the CDC. He was bit the same night as Ed, but the walkers didn't finish him off."

"So, then, how would I have known Ed?"

Carol didn't answer right away, which got Merle curious. He was done with his initial perusal of the piles, and he walked over to her, waiting. She seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him, and was worrying her bottom lip. "Well, Ed was kind of heavy-set, with brown hair. He...tended to keep us – me and Sophia – away from the main group some. Had us tent up on the edge of camp. He didn't participate much in group things." She still hadn't looked up, and had lost focus in her sorting. She'd been handling the same helmet for several minutes, putting it down on the shelf, picking it back up, and putting it back down.

She cleared her throat. "The night he died, Ed, was the night Daryl, Rick, Glenn, and T-Dog came back from trying to get you off the roof." She finally looked up and startled at how close he was. She moved around him to get to one of the piles farther into the room.

"Sophia?"

She spoke quickly. "That's – that was my daughter. She was Carl's age. She got – got lost at Hershel's farm." She'd begun to sort the equipment rapidly. "Daryl searched for her even after everyone else lost hope." Merle heard her swallow, and then he barely heard, "Even me."

"So, you still miss him? Ed, I mean."

He was surprised at the harsh sound that came from her as she exhaled and turned to look at him. "God, no. Ed was the worst thing that ever happened in my life. I'd prayed for him to die long before he did." Her face that had been tinged with sorrow was now hard.

Merle didn't say anything, just looked at her for the answer to the question she had to know was there.

Carol cocked her head to the side and looked up at the ceiling of the room, her left hand on her hip, her right hand resting on the shield she'd been getting ready to move. "Let's just say, your brother isn't the only one with some nasty scars he'd rather nobody saw." She picked up the shield and started a new row against the wall. "At least he never touched Sophia. It might be the only thing I ever did for her, but it's something."

"Well." Merle really didn't know what to say. Hadn't expected any of that really. And she'd seen Daryl's scars? "Shit."

Carol looked over at him, then her mouth screwed up in a strange little smile, and then she laughed. It burst from her with a genuine guffaw, and she bent over a little at the waist, resting her hands on her thighs as she let out her hearty amusement. "You could say that, sure!" She stood back up and grinned, showing full teeth, and a near dimple on her right cheek. "You ever been married, Merle?"

"What? Me? Nah." He reached up with his good hand and rubbed his scruffy jaw. "Ya know. Too much man for one woman." He smirked at her, a little embarrassed.

"Well, I know you'd be too much man for me, Mr. Dixon. But...I might let you buy me a drink. You know, if we had any alcohol."

"Yeah, that' too bad, peaches."

"Stop." But she was still smiling at him as she stacked another shield. He had started sorting the equipment into her efficient piles, too. "Have you ever thought about making your own?" she asked.

"What? Like a still?"

"Yeah. White lighting, right?"

"Heh. No, I guess I hadn't thought about it."

"Have you had it before?"

"Moonshine? Sure! The old timers used to make it around my granddad's place. Have you?"

"Oh, my, no. From what I hear it'd either grow hair on my chest or singe it right off!"

"You got that right. Nothing smooth about it."

"Was it hard to make?"

"Not so far as I saw. My granddad showed me his still once. I could probably figure out the set up. Might fail a batch or two, but I'd work it out."

Most of the piles were sorted, and just a few pieces remained in the back corner where Carol was making quick work of them. She looked up at him where she was crouched on the floor. "You know, drinking wouldn't be the only use for alcohol." Merle swore she looked down right devious.

"Oh, yeah? What else you thinkin' 'bout, peaches?"

She didn't admonish him this time. Now he knew something was up. She scooped together the last few items in her arms and stepped over to deposit them in the right places. "Well, you can preserve some foods in alcohol. It's good for cleaning, as a solvent." Her arms were empty and she crossed them over her waist as she turned to him. "You can use it as a weapon, Merle. Instead of wasting gasoline on the Molotovs?" He raised his eyebrows at that. "And since it burns, of course, as fuel. For lanterns, for heat." She took a step toward him. "And eventually, if we could modify for it, for vehicles or generators." Her eyes were lit from within. "Think about it, Merle. It's renewable. I know moonshine is usually made with corn, but if we figure it out, alcohol can be made from anything that has sugar in it."

Now he understood her. He narrowed his eye and grabbed her arm. "Why you little vixen!" He smiled at her. "I heard about the plan you gave to Andrea for the Governor. That should have tipped me off about how sly you are." She had uncrossed her arms, and she was looking levelly at him. He had expected her to be frightened. He tilted his head and peered at her. "Was this whole thing a set up just to get me thinking about making moonshine?"

She didn't say anything.

"All that about your husband and your daughter?"

She still remained silent and continued to look him straight in the eye.

Merle closed his eyes and shook his head. He wondered if she'd done this before. He opened his eyes. "Why didn't you just ask me?"

Carol looked pointedly down at where he still held her by the arm, then back up to him. He released her and she stepped back. "You set me up to flirt with you, didn't you, peaches?"

"I asked you to stop. Remember, Merle?" Her lips held the tiniest hint of a smile. "And I'm not sly. I'm asking you now. Could you do it, and what would you need?"


	4. 4: Void

**Notes: I really appreciate the follows and favorites. Thank you so much ^_^. I want to be honest that this story will not be on a regular updating schedule, but I will do my best to work on it, and not to abandon it. I have come to appreciate reviews so much, so I hope you will consider doing so if you find something you respond to. One of my goals with this story is to have interactions between characters that we don't see together often. For the most part, these will be dyad vignettes. I am considering the addition of one OC during the run. So if that's something you absolutely want me to avoid, you are welcome to say so.**

**Disclaimer: Copyright for **_**The Walking Dead**_** belongs to AMC, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.**

**Title: "Inventio"  
Chapter: ****"4. Void"**

If there was one thing Michonne did well, it was to face things. She didn't avoid conflict. She didn't avoid fear. She didn't procrastinate or hesitate. She took things as they came, in the order they needed to be done, and she didn't flinch. It was one thing that was constant in her before the crisis and after. So, once she had made the decision to deal with Merle, she went towards that encounter quickly and directly.

That didn't mean, of course, that she liked everything she had to face. She didn't like Merle Dixon, and his face was only part of the problem.

The thing that bothered her about Merle wasn't anything he said – which seemed to be how he kept the group edgy, and himself entertained. Even his being a killer was only a symptom of the real problem. What Michonne could not abide about Merle Dixon was that he was empty inside. When it came down to it, he didn't know who or what he was. All of the things he did that were unpredictable, all of the loud declarations of his badness, the drugs, the desperate clinging to concepts like "race" and "blood," the ease with which he'd both served The Governor and lied to him – all brought her to the same conclusion.

Not only was Merle void where it counted, he was scared to death of anybody else finding out. Ironically, he was just as desperate to have others provide proof that he existed at all, hence the attempts to gain negative attention. Michonne thought that he had probably lived long enough to have figured this out, but also lived in the pattern for so long that he'd been unable to break it, leaving him little choice but to hate himself. Her Grandma Aggie would have said that he'd never opened his inner sacred place, so he could not ever find sanctuary in it.

Before, she might have had the luxury to feel compassion or at least pity for him. Now, she simply hoped he didn't get them all dead before their time.

Carol had pointed her in the direction of equipment storage, and that's where Michonne found him. The door was propped open, so she had a chance to observe him for a few moments before he noticed her. If given the chance, she always preferred this strategy. Let him come to her, not knowing how long she'd already been engaged in the interaction.

The body armor had been sorted into piles of like pieces on the shelving with the shields stacked in standing rows against the free spaces on the walls, and the elder Dixon was examining it piece by piece. From what she could tell he'd formed two piles on the floor. The smaller of the two she presumed was useless, given the condition of several helmets that even she would have thought cracked beyond repair. The slightly larger pile held pieces that also showed damage. She surmised that he found something still salvageable in these. He was currently crouched next to a battered shield and was peering closely along its concave side near the handle. As she continued to watch, Merle stood and braced the shield against the wall, taking the handle forcefully. He then leveraged his right boot against the inside of the shield and gave a mighty tug, straining the reinforcements that secured the parts together. The shield made a groaning noise, but held. He pulled again, more harshly if possible, and the shield still held.

Shifting to balance on both feet, he let the device drop to the floor and stand on its slightly pointed tip. Holding it steady with his sheathed wrist, he moved his hand up and spun the shield 180 degrees. Next he shoved it up against the wall again, and kept it in place. Readying himself, he gave it a hard body check, testing its convex surface strength. The shield shuddered as it skidded against the wall with the partly forward motion of Merle's lunge. He gave it two more checks from various angles, and the shield seemed to pass muster, as he made a small, satisfied sound in his chest. Finally, he flipped the thing upside down so its clear section was on the concrete, and set to test where the viewer met opaque reinforcement. Holding it by the bottom in the air, he angled the shield and gave the joint a hard, fast stomp. To Michonne's surprise, it didn't break. If nothing else, she had just learned a lesson about testing equipment. The walk down the hall had been worth something.

Merle flipped the shield up and caught the handle again, moving to set it against a line of its fellows. As he did, he finally caught sight of her. The frown that formed was what she expected. He placed the piece in line and turned to wipe his sweaty brow on the shoulder of his t-shirt. His neck was shiny with perspiration, and the shirt had telltale rings on his back, chest, and under his arms. He had been giving the job his full attention, which he now focused on her.

"To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the Nubian princess?"

Michonne said nothing, and her neutral expression didn't change. Fact was she didn't give a shit about Merle's opinion of her. He could call her anything at all and she wouldn't care especially if they were alone. He wasn't creating a wrong impression with any of the kids so why bother raising her heart rate? And she sure wasn't going to provide him with an identity by rising to the bait and giving him something to play off. If he wanted to know who he was, he'd have to have the balls to figure it out for himself.

The smirk he had pasted on thinned a bit, and he rested his hand on his belt as she stayed absolutely still and silent. She wondered how long he could wait. She knew it wouldn't be as long as she could. So far, he was mirroring her, or trying. He had stayed silent, and was waiting across from her, hand on hip, stump hanging by his side. Several final beads of sweat had run down the along his hairline and dripped from his right ear to the shoulder of his shirt. She wondered if he could stay silent until the two spots dried.

His breathing was evening out from his exertion, and his facial muscles were going slack along with it. He was a fit man, but still a man in his fifties, and she noticed that he shifted ever-so-little on his feet. Probably his muscles beginning to tighten as he went from working to such a sudden stop. He'd lived a hard life to earn his scars and experience. That came with the cost of joints that aged early. She had noticed that he already had a touch of arthritis in his remaining hand that showed up when he was required to use finer motor skills. Too many punches and fine finger bone breaks untreated. He didn't realize it yet, but if he lived a long life in this world, he was going to have it harder than he even knew.

She had chosen a position for a long wait. She was leaned against the doorframe, hands resting on the hilt of her katana that was propped casually, or perhaps not so casually, in front of her. Her feet were positioned well. All it would take was a shift of weight and a two-inch adjustment of her hand and she'd have the sword out and be balanced to strike. Merle was not as lucky. He didn't have his blade on the prosthetic today, and she'd seen the gun in his back waistband. He'd have to draw to get a weapon if he wanted this to go south. He was also penned in while she had escape. She hoped he didn't do something really stupid. None of them needed that. She looked pointedly at the sword, then down to her feet, to his stump, to the room, and then slanted them over her shoulder to the door. Merle's eyes followed hers, and his jaw muscle tightened. He got her message.

She could tell he was doing his best not to show his agitation, but he began to blink more than he should. Ah, his tell. Michonne filed the tidbit away. Self-defense or poker. He'd be speaking again in three, two –

"What do you want."

"You were the one that wanted. Bygones?"

Merle huffed, and pursed his lips. "Well, today is just my lucky day. Women cannot keep themselves away from me." He turned and surveyed the room. "Luckily I'm all done in here. You've got good timing." He moved to the larger of the two piles on the floor and filled his arms with the motley group of items. "You can help me hoof this stuff out to some place useful."

"And why would I? Your bygones, not mine."

He'd turned with full arms, and was walking toward her. "'Cause women in the place want things. Bygones are gonna mean I put out for you. So, you're gonna have to be where _I am_ to get what you want." He waited next to her at the door. "Do I have to push you over, or are you gonna let me through?"

Michonne stepped back into the hallway to let him out. He stepped into the corridor and stopped, clearly waiting. This was not what she had planned. Damn. Fine. "All of it?"

"Yep."

In two graceful steps she had grabbed two shields from the nearest pile and turned. Merle's arms might be full, but she would not be walking in front of him, and she would be increasing her defense, not compromising it.

Merle smiled at her, and shook his head. "Were you military?"

She didn't answer.

He began walking through the maze of darkened hallways back toward their common areas. "What are bygones gonna cost me then?"

"Information. Maybe recon."

"Recon? Outside the fence?" He sounded amused. "Do you really think Deputy Do-Right is gonna take well to that?" She saw him shake his head. "What information would I have that you need?"

"Governor's scouts."

Merle stopped. When he spoke his voice was hard. "I've tried this already. He wouldn't give me _two fucking seconds_. What makes you think you've got a chance in hell?"

"Glenn's not you."

As she watched she could see the color rising on the back of Merle's neck. Clearly, the kid was becoming as much of a sore spot to him as he was to Glenn. Merle swore creatively. She filed that as well. Third lesson from this interaction. A couple of them she'd really liked.

He started walking again, rigid and fast. A glove fell from the pile in his arms and he didn't give it a second look. He was muttering, and she made out "that fucking gook" before he went silent. They were close to the Block C entrance when he stopped, and turned to her.

"Look. I'll do whatever, but get this straight. We –," his gaze was pointed, "are all square after. Final. We back each other from then on."

She waited. Then nodded. "Fuck up again, I kill you."

"Granted. And with Glenn it's the same."

She shook her head. "Settle between yourselves."

"You said it takes me and him, and you're here, so it must take you, too."

She shrugged. "Swing dicks with him. Not my issue."

Merle narrowed his eyes at her.

"I. Can't. Do it. It _has to be_ you, you venomous son of a bitch."

Merle growled. He honestly growled, like the bulldog he resembled. "_Someone's _got to get him to come half-way or else I can't make it fucking work."

Despite her self-declared Zen about Merle, she hoped Glenn made the asshole grovel.

She gave a last, curt nod.


	5. 5: Blades

**Disclaimer: Copyright for **_**The Walking Dead**_** belongs to AMC, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.**

**Title: "Inventio"  
Chapter: ****"5. Blades"**

Carl had taken the blades out to the catwalk and propped himself with his back against one of the tables. Daryl had shown him how to properly sharpen and clean them, and tasked him with making sure every single one was perfect by the time he returned from hunting. Carl had decided to take them outside even though the heat was terrible because the light was better. Up on the breezeway the air moved better than in the yard and the reinforcements did provide some shade. He'd laid the various implements out on a towel before him, and had prepared the whet stone with just a few drops of the precious supply of mineral oil like Daryl had shown him. Too much and the strokes would be useless. Too little and the edge would be ground to shit. He also had a handful of clean rags he'd prepped from newly discarded shirts that had been deemed too destroyed for any more mending. They recycled everything now.

He had just taken up the smallest of the spare hunting knives to get started when he heard the dock door sliding up. As he turned toward it his dad was standing up from his crouch and pushing it closed again. Carl hoped his dad hadn't come up just to tell him to do the job inside. He was safely behind the blockade. No scout would be able to take any shots at him. Hell, in this heat those Woodbury pricks were probably back at home drinking lemonade and enjoying air conditioning, if what Michonne said was true. Carl started the first stroke of the knife on the stone.

Rick closed the distance and crouched next to him, resting on his heels. He threaded the fingers of his left hand in the fence above Carl's head to balance himself and swiped his forehead with the other forearm. He didn't say anything as he took in the tools before Carl and watched his son pull the knife carefully across the sharpening stone. "Got water to guard against this heat?"

Carl paused and lifted his elbow, revealing a bottle of water tucked in close to his side. Did his dad think he was stupid? Rick nodded and looked through the fence past his hand and out to the field where the walkers roamed aimlessly. He fidgeted right wrist, causing the watch that hung there to spin as he rested the forearm on his knee.

"So have you heard about this run Carol is planning to make?"

"A little. Something about books?"

"S'right. I talked with her about it this morning. She's got a good plan."

Carl flipped the knife and began on the other side. He didn't really see the reason for risking a run to get books. Couldn't eat books. Couldn't put down a walker with books. Wouldn't be able to blow up the damn Governor with books.

"She wants you to go with her and Michonne."

Carl looked up, surprised. Rick was still gazing out across the field. "What? Why?" The questions were out before he realized it. He wasn't happy about that. He had been glad that his dad had recognized that he could do his part for the group by taking him to Cynthia. If he complained about this it might set him back. He tried again, quickly. "I mean, are you sure we should be leaving now? Daryl isn't back yet."

"He should be tomorrow. Her plan is solid. She requested you especially."

Carl tried not to react to that. He put down the stone and took up one of the clean rags to wipe the finished knife.

"Any particular reason?" He hoped it sounded uninterested and he didn't look up. He thought it was how Daryl might have asked.

He could see that his dad had finally turned back and so he looked over at him. "She says you don't waste ammunition and you are a good shot. She says you are the best look out of all of us, and that's why she asked for you."

Carl couldn't help himself. He could feel his ears heating up at the praise. She had really said those things? He wasn't able to hold his smile back. "Hhn."

Rick didn't even pretend. He grinned widely. "I was proud to hear her talk about you like that." He sobered quickly though. "But, I'm not thrilled about sending you out there." Carl started to protest, and Rick held up his free hand to stop him. "I know. You proved yourself. I've already told her that if you're willing I'm sending the three of you."

Carl opened his mouth to say "yes" immediately, but stopped himself. He needed to be mature about this. He placed the finished knife back in its position and took up the whetstone and the mineral oil to prepare it again. Once he'd put the oil back down, he spoke. "I'm glad to do it. Should I check in with her?"

Rick cleared his throat. "I think that would be appropriate. Are you planning to finish all these today?"

"Daryl told me he expected them done before he got back."

"Why do we need sharp blades to kill walkers?"

"He said that dull blades don't pull free as easy. Sharper blades mean faster retrieval time."

"S'pose that's true."

Carl picked up the small knife he'd just finished and held it out to Rick. "Why don't you leave me yours and take this one? You can exchange it again after I'm done."

Rick raised his eyebrows, but took the knife by its proffered handle. He unsheathed his own blade and passed it to Carl, stowing the newly sharpened one in its place. "Thanks, Carl. Good planning. Don't wait too long to talk with Carol. She may have something special she needs from you. Take her instructions about what to pack."

"Yes sir. Could you maybe let the others know I'm sharpening? Maybe they could change out, too?"

"I will, son."

"Thanks."

Rick rose and moved back toward the door. Carl positioned his father's blade and started the careful process. He could feel his dad watching him. It felt heavy, like the beating of the sun in the stifling Georgian afternoon.

"Carl?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep them safe."

"I will."

He didn't look up from his work as his dad made his way inside again. Holy crap! Carol had requested him! Part of him wanted to go brag to Beth and part of him was completely freaked out. It was one thing being out there with his dad and Michonne, but this was Carol. First of all, Carol was great at a lot of things, and he'd see her kill walkers even, but she wasn't his dad. Second of all, if anything happened to her, he was pretty sure Daryl would kill him, and not metaphorically. Daryl would grab him by the neck and beat him into a pile of ground meat. Third of all, his dad had just told him to keep them safe. Were two grown women going to listen to him if he needed them to? How was he going to keep them safe if they wouldn't?

Carl finished his dad's knife and wiped it clean. Next up was one of the nightmarish implements from the original "arsenal" Carl had found back on the highway where they'd lost – he shook his head – back by the Greene farm. He held it up and considered it closely. The thing's sharp edges were strangely placed and angled. He'd have to be both creative and careful. He checked the stone and it was adequately oiled. He might need to apply a bit more before he was done, though. Carl chose an edge and began.

Then there was the fact that Daryl wasn't back yet. Sometimes he got held up when he was out hunting, now that he was venturing farther away to try and ensure safety from Woodbury and to preserve the closer game for winter. The prison would be four defenders down! That was practically half the group and the fences still weren't up again! Those left would include Beth and Judith, the most vulnerable and his most precious people. Carl thought darkly that if anything happened to either of them while Daryl was on watch that the redneck would find himself ground into hamburger. So would his dad.

Carl considered the strange instrument he was sharpening again. Who the hell thought up something like this? He could not imagine what practical value it could ever have served, except maybe to scare the person it was being used against to death before it struck them. Given how many sharp edges it had, it was likely to be more dangerous to the wielder than an enemy. A stray swipe could easily open up a person's leg as it whipped past. There was an oddly placed hook and a strange hole near the middle of the thing. Carl closed his left eye and peered through the hole with his right. Maybe it was some kind of sighting?

As Carl looked the back gates opened and the Tucson drove out from the back. Michonne came around and closed the doors, then jogged alongside the vehicle. Carl laid the "horror hook" down, and shifted around to see what was up. It looked like Glenn was driving. They wouldn't be going out for a run, not if his group was going tomorrow. Michonne got the attention of the walkers who were immediately in front of the fence gate, drawing them away. Once they were moved, Glenn popped out and undid the lock as Michonne beat it back to the car. Glenn pulled through and was out again to cover as Michonne secured the gate behind them. The biter crop had been fairly thin just then, so they only had to drop three before they could slip back into the car and continue down the drive. They only went as far as the outer gate, however, before maneuvering next to the overturned bus, and stopping.

They backed up slowly along the ruined fencing as the walkers in the field gained interest and began a shuffling convergence towards them. Suddenly the two were out their doors and Michonne's katana was drawn. She took a running start and neatly took down the two closest walkers who were well ahead of the rest, and was quickly back to the car and Glenn. Carl couldn't make out what Glenn was doing because he was bent and concealed behind the bulk of the Hyundai. Carl did see the wrecked fencing shake and shudder several times, and he heard a faint yell from Michonne as the next closest walkers came into range. But Glenn's head was up again, and then they were in the car and it was tearing back up the drive to the gate and into safety.

Carl kept an eye out in case they needed any cover, but they made it back in without incident. He turned back to his project. He wiped the horror hook clean and set it aside. He opened his water and took a deep drink before setting it aside once more and wiping his brow beneath his hatband.

Next up was a machete, then his own knife, what looked to be a simple butcher's knife with a modified handle, a skinning blade, two worn Bowies, and something that was probably meant to be a decorative dagger but had been drafted into actual service. Once those were all finished he'd return his dad's and go about collecting from the group. Oh! He couldn't forget to check in with Carol. Then he'd go to Beth for her KA-BAR, and tell her about the trip. He hoped she'd be impressed, and maybe a little worried about him. He smiled to himself at that, and picked up the whet stone to prep it again with the mineral oil.


	6. 6: Probably a Stew

**Notes: I'm doing a time skip ahead because we haven't seen Daryl yet. The next chapter will have to time skip back, so I hope you don't mind. I made an educated guess that this would be readers' preference. I also didn't think I could quite fiction my way through Daryl actually hunting to check in with him earlier. The time required for me to do decent research for that would have taken me a while. Thus, compromise.**

**Disclaimer: Copyright for **_**The Walking Dead**_** belongs to AMC, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.**

**Title: "Inventio"  
Chapter: ****"6. Probably a Stew"**

Daryl had begun hunting farther away from the prison about two weeks earlier. He and Merle had discussed the risks of the Governor's men along with the problems of the long-term residence that they were now in. If they continued to hunt too close there were numerous consequences.

Though the dead were everywhere, they still showed the uncanny ability to track the living. Since the group was tethered in one place, the dead would always be drawn, and any game would be doubly depopulated by hunting and walkers. Hunting close while war with Woodbury loomed also placed the hunter in additional danger of capture or attack since they knew they were under surveillance. They surmised that at some distance any tail would be more effort than the Governor's scouts would want to put forth. And then, of course, there was the fact that continuing to take game from the same area taught the animals that the territory was a no go zone. Wild ones were wary and smart.

However, this meant that whoever was going to take on the responsibility would have to travel farther, less often, and make any trip count for more. It couldn't be a daily effort, and it would probably require transport. The Triumph would be too loud, and wouldn't be able to handle a big game animal. A truck would be too obvious. The Dixons decided what they really needed was a four-wheel ATV. It would be able to stay off roads, could be easily camouflaged, and had the hauling power for bringing back what they hoped would be the supplements the group needed to its diet.

* * *

It had taken longer than they liked to find one. It had been Carl who had actually spied it. He and Glenn had been scoping out a small farming outpost, surrounded by fields that had returned after going to seed the season before. It wasn't a town, really. There was a grain elevator, a gas station, and an implement dealership at a crossroads, with a few houses along a dirt road. The gas station had been stripped clean, and the office of the elevator offered nothing but some reams of copy paper, a pack of AA batteries, hardened sticks of chewing gum, some very old tea bags, and a bunch of paper dishes and plastic silverware which the two stowed quickly in their vehicle. As they were about to check the implement for useful vehicle parts, Carl tugged at Glenn's arm.

"Hey, isn't that what Daryl was talking about?"

The dealership had all the impressive "big game" out in front, but as they had come up to the door near the corner of the building they were able to see around to the side where smaller machines were parked. A line of garden tractors of diminishing size were neatly arranged, and at the end of the row sat a stubby, four-wheeled vehicle with a boxy chest attached at the back. It was a jarringly bright orange and black color scheme, but Carl was right. It was exactly what the Dixons had requested.

Glenn had slapped Carl on the shoulder. "Dude, you got it! We are going be heroes!"

They had jogged to the machine and looked carefully over its starter and read its make and model number so they could search for its keys and any other accessories inside. They didn't want to pull it apart to start it if they didn't have to.

* * *

From his perch in the tree Daryl looked down on the "badger." He'd taken to calling the four-wheeler the "badger" because it had a funny kind of growl when it was running. It was surprisingly quiet at its low speeds where he usually kept it, but when it got revved up it was mean. The thing was all a dull black now. The first thing he'd done when he could manage it was to take some black spray paint from the prison's workshops to the screaming paint job. It made for much better cover. The matte finish was also better because it wouldn't reflect the light in the day time.

The chest was currently locked and filled with as much squirrel and rabbit as it would hold. He'd strung up the larger game he'd field dressed in a tree several yards away so it would be safe from walkers and other scavengers until he could start home with it in the morning. If it drew anything during the night he'd be able to deal with them from his position before retrieving it. It had simply been too late and he was too tired to risk heading back tonight.

He'd bagged a small buck and damned if he didn't find a group of sheep that had managed to escape from some farm and kept out of the clutches of the dead. He'd only taken two, because he couldn't carry more. Plus, he figured if they bred some that herds of wild sheep wouldn't be that bad to have running about. Easier for later.

Daryl secured himself and the crossbow to the tree so he could sleep without worrying about a fall, but the quick-release knots would let him escape with hardly a flick of his hand. The Georgia night was beautiful. The sunset had been glorious. It had made him glad to be alive. There had been fewer walkers on this trip than his last. This actually made him more edgy, not less. He worried it was a sign of a coalescing herd somewhere nearby. If he hadn't had the urgent business of providing protein for the group, he'd have scouted to see if he could find if it was close.

He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. He had managed to find refuge in a particularly gorgeous specimen of southern live oak. He wondered what Merle would think if he knew Daryl thought trees were "gorgeous." It was the state tree of Georgia. He wondered if any of the group knew that. He'd seen several Brown Thrashers today, the state's bird. Georgia even had a fucking state possum. He laughed to himself. The only reason he knew that was because he'd been caught with one by a game warden once and had to pay a fucking fine. It was the fucking Pogo Possum. If he found one of those bastards now he'd shoot it and cook it up and declare it a state holiday. He'd bet that pack of smokes Merle had hidden away that the group wouldn't have a clue why.

They probably wouldn't know that the Cherokee rose he'd given Carol was the state flower, either. Carol might not know, but she'd believe he knew it. Maybe he should tell her. This trip out he hadn't seen any. Maybe if he did on the way back he'd bring her one. He'd say it was for Judith, but she'd know. She always seemed to know. She knew so many things, the really hard things, like how to talk to people the way they needed it, how to be quiet without it being uncomfortable, and how to make things better, right.

His muscles were tired after the long day, and so was his brain. He'd been in full concentration mode since dawn. He'd been tracking, dispatching walkers, keeping an eye out for any living human sign, planning for the trip back from where his current position was, and even further ahead to how long this haul would last them, and how soon until they need him to leave again. If only Merle could be trusted, then he could trade off with this.

Hershel seemed to be getting on well enough with his brother, which was unexpected. Daryl hardly dared to hope that the time they spent together would result in a friendship to temper Merle's wild streak. He thought, not for the first time, that Hershel was the kind of father he wished he'd had, or at least an uncle or a granddad. To have known a man that didn't speak first with his fist and second with a bottle would have made a difference in Merle's life, and in his.

He wondered what Carol's dad had been like. Did a woman go to a man like Ed because her father was like him? Had Ed always been a bastard, or was he like one of those guys in the movies that was all flowers and candy until he got her home, or married, or pregnant and then turned into a monster? Daryl had seen some Jennifer Lopez movie once where that happened, and then she went all ape shit on the guy and beat him to death. Daryl smiled and shifted on the branch. Carol had put a pick to Ed's skull. If he were alive to see her now he'd be pissing his drawers. She could shoot him between the eyes at twenty yards and take a machete to his balls up close. Afterward she'd still be able to tell a funny little joke, and smile so beautiful, and drift down the hall like some swan with that long neck and those graceful arms.

He was glad he was alone because he could smile about her without anyone asking him what was he was thinking about. He wouldn't be able to explain it anyway. He never had the time he needed to work that out. He couldn't tell somebody else before he really knew, and he sure wasn't going to tell anyone other than Carol before he told her..._if _he told her. He didn't even know if it was something that needed telling to her.

He knew he liked to hear about news from her instead of other people. He knew he thought of things he'd seen and done on this trip that he'd been remembering to tell her. He'd added the oak, the thrashers, the sunset and even the possum to that. Nobody else would care, but she would. He knew that if he had a choice he'd take her as a partner for an activity over anyone else. He knew it felt better than most other things in his life now. He was starting to think that being around Carol felt better than most things...ever. He knew he dreamed about her sometimes, but he didn't remember them when he woke up.

He'd left with Merle, and he knew she'd understand. For some reason, though, he'd never felt like that was a final separation. He hadn't expected they'd go back, but he hadn't thought Carol was gone, either. He'd tried to figure out what he had thought would happen. He didn't know. The only thing seemed to be that he thought wherever he ended up he would find her there. Sometimes he thought that was insane. Sometimes he wondered if he should tell her. He had no idea how.

Maybe if Daryl had known a man like Hershel he'd be able to say the things he wanted to say when he wanted to say them. Sometimes he could. Back at the farm he had been able to a couple of times with Carol, but only after he'd had time to prepare. Any time he didn't he'd smashed around and hurt her. And with Carl, he'd had time to think about his mom. But people needed things so fast, especially now. Daryl needed practice. Hunting and tracking weren't natural. It took practice. Why the hell did they think all this stuff was so natural?

The one thing he knew for sure was that people didn't like him raw. He couldn't let out what he thought and felt the way it happened to him. They couldn't take it. But they never gave him any time to prepare it for them. They couldn't wait. What the fuck did they expect? He wasn't instant soup.

No, not instant soup. Probably a stew. Something thick, not very spicy, with carrots, and peas that took hours to cook. He liked peas. Potatoes were good, too, but not okra. Never did like that slimy stuff. Carol'd remember not to put any in...She always knew how to make things better...right...


End file.
